


Raising Hell All Over Town

by trashcangimmick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Daddy Kink, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: "My old man is a bad man, but I can't deny the way he holds my hand. And he grabs me, he has me by my heart."Dean and Crowley sometimes go out drinking. It tends to end dirty.





	Raising Hell All Over Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless smut because [R E A S O N S.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H53q4K3D9V0) (I listened to too much Lana and it gave me daddy kink feels. Sue me.)

This has become a strange but familiar scene. Crowley sitting in some run-down bar, sipping top-shelf Scotch, as Dean Winchester tries to drown himself in the cheapest well liquor available. It’s hard not to speculate that he does it on purpose. He must know how it pains Crowley, to see an associate knocking back shot after shot of Evan Williams.

Then again, ‘associate’ might not be the most apt description for it these days. They don’t talk about it. Crowley is under the impression that Dean would brutally murder him if he ever let slip where these impromptu drinking sessions lead. But that’s all right. In a way, the air of secrecy and shame just make it all more fun.

“You know, I’m not carrying you back to the car,” Crowley drawls, staring down into his glass. Dean is on the verge of sloppy, which would usually be distasteful in a lover. But it makes Dean so much more pliable. Crowley can forgive the lack of fine motor skills.

“Shut up,” Dean’s slurring his words just a bit. It’s almost cute.

“How many have you had? Are you even still keeping count?”

“‘M fine.”

Crowley glances up at him, eyebrow half-raised. Dean’s physical beauty is heartbreaking. Staggering. Terribly unfair. Freckled cheeks, thick eyelashes, lips that were made for sin. It’s a pity Cas ever pulled him out of hell. Crowley could have made little Deano into an excellent salesman.

“Don’t give me that look,” Dean hiccups. He’s flushed. Breathing too fast. Already swimming in a sea of embarrassed arousal.

Untangling all the contradictions that leave that boy’s mouth is more an art than a science. But Crowley is nothing if not persistent. The only time Dean tells the truth is when he’s in the throes of agony or orgasmic pleasure. Crowley gets him there. Wheedles at him until he spills out all his most twisted desires.

More often than not, _Crowley don’t_ , means _Crowley please don’t stop_. Dean’s such a glorious, masochistic mess, bent on martyrdom at any cost. It took months to even get him using a safe word.

Rhubarb.

Crowley may be a demon, he may even be a sadist, but he refuses to take what isn’t willingly given. It’s beneath him. Downright uncouth. Brute force isn’t difficult. It’s all in the art of the sale.

“We’ll take the check,” Crowley smiles at the bartender. He can feel Dean’s desire to protest. But at this stage in the game, distraction is easy. All it takes is a hand on Dean’s knee, and the fight drains right out of him.

They make it back to the car, with Dean leaning heavily on Crowley for support. It’s a nice night. There’s a cool breeze, leaves rustling in the trees. They’re somewhere in northern Colorado. At the base of the mountains, so it’s not quite a desert. It was hot when the sun was out and now it’s settled to a decidedly more habitable temperature.

Crowley pushes Dean up against the side of the Impala. Slots his thigh between the boy’s spread legs. Leans in close, keeping a tight hold on the lapels of Dean’s leather jacket.

“You’re in no state to drive. Shall I take you back to the motel? Sam must be worried.”

“No… I um… I told him I was going out.”

“With me?” Crowley smirks.

“Just out.”

“I see.” Crowley licks a stripe up the side of Dean’s neck to make him shiver. “Well then, if the missus isn’t waiting up for you… perhaps there’s more mischief to be found.”

“Uh huh,” Dean’s breath hitches. He’s got a firm grip on Crowley’s hips. He keeps flexing his fingers. He’s been obviously hard in his jeans since before they left the bar.

It would be easy to shove him in the back seat and fuck his brains out. But this is all still part of the dance. This repeated seduction, time and again, like Dean might say no—well that’s half the allure.

“I suppose I could take you to another pub. But you’ve rather had enough. I wonder if there’s a strip club in this god forsaken town.”

Dean groans. Starts trying to grind his erection against Crowley’s thigh.

Crowley slaps him across the face. Just hard enough to sting. It’s more for the sound than anything. Dean yelps. Stops moving.

“Now, I’m confused. Did I say you could do that?”

“N-no, sir,” Dean stammers. Sliding into his role like a second skin. He’s used to taking orders, after all. In fact, he craves it. He wears it like a big blinking neon sign. _Please hurt me._

“I thought not. I don’t remember giving you permission to hump my leg like a bitch in heat. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” he barely whispers.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“There’s a good lad.” Crowley gently runs his knuckles across Dean’s cheek. Reveling in the hot skin, pounding blood, carnal desire. “Now, give us a kiss.”

Dean presses forward. Their lips brush together. It’s always so shy at first. This is not how Dean Winchester kisses women. Soft, kittenish, and timid. No, this is only for Crowley, and that makes it so much sweeter. The desire is palpable in every hot puff of breath. Crowley lets it go on until he feels the barest hint of tongue. Then he pulls back.

“What are we going to do with you?” He sighs, in that mixture of exasperation and begrudging fondness that he so often feels towards the boy. “You’re such a mess, pet. I’m not sure you’re even fit to play with…”

“I am,” Dean says too quickly. “Sir. I’m—please, I need it.”

“Need what, sweetheart? You’ll have to be specific.”

Dean chews on his lip. Stares at Crowley with those wide, watery blue eyes. He always has a hard time asking for it out loud. Perhaps it makes everything too real. That’s the delight of having him jump the hurdle before they proceed.

“I need you to… _need you to fuck me, Daddy.”_ It comes out a jumbled, barely audible whine. But it’s good enough.

Dean’s not the only one that’s been aching for it after all.

Crowley tugs one of the back doors open and shoves Dean inside it. They’re on a semi-public, well-lit street. They both have an exhibistionist streak. Dean probably parked here on purpose. Crowley ducks into the car and shuts the door behind him. Dean’s in his lap the second he even sits down. Wiggling, and gasping, and kissing the side of Crowley’s mouth.

Some nights, Crowley is rough. He’ll take Dean back to one of his various houses about the country, tie him down, and whip him bloody. Their games often involve belts, knives, and melted wax. It’s like Dean wants to pretend he’s on the rack all over again, and Crowley is more than happy to oblige.

Other times, he can tell Dean needs something tender. Needs to be held close and told what a special, beautiful little boy he is.

Tonight, it’s the latter.

Dean makes such pretty noises as Crowley undresses him, traces over every inch of naked skin. His cock is shiny at the tip. Already leaking. He gets so wet. It’s exquisite.

“Have you been a good boy? Did you get yourself ready for me, pet?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley brushes his fingers over the plastic base of the plug Dean’s stretched around. It’s a big one. And god, the thought of Dean sprawled on the bathroom floor of some dumpy motel, fingering himself open, slathering lube over his toy and gently working it into himself…

“Did you come?”

“Huh…?” Dean’s already dazed, just from Crowley’s feather-light touch.

“When you were working your greedy little hole open for Daddy, did you come, or were you able to control yourself?”

“I didn’t finish,” Dean hiccups. He sounds like he’s already on the verge of tears. “I waited for you, Daddy. I promise!”

“I believe you, darling.” Crowley smooths a hand down Dean’s back in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Dean rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Perhaps relieved. He can be very sweet like this. All those rough edges fade away easily when he’s in his _Daddy’s_ lap.

Sometimes, Crowley wonders if this is all some misguided attempt at trauma mastery. He wonders if John winchester might have overstepped boundaries. Had a little too much to drink and done something regrettable. But that’s not the sort of thing you ask. And even if it were, he’s not sure he wants to know.

Crowley grips the base of the plug and slowly draws it out. Dean whimpers. So of course, Crowley can’t resist shoving it back in. Fucking Dean nice and slow, until he’s mewling and trembling, and pushing back against each thrust. Then, and only then, does Crowley pull it all the way out.

It’s one of the bigger ones. Not terribly long, but quite thick. They picked it out together at a sex shop in the Castro district. Because before they started using plugs, it would always take such a long time to work Dean open enough to fuck. Crowley can be patient. Dean can’t. The bastard was bound to injure himself, trying to climb onto Crowley’s monster of a cock before he was ready.

As it is, Crowley barely has time to grab the packet of lube in his pocket, pull out his dick and slick himself up before Dean sinks down onto him.

That first breach, the moment of penetration, when the thick head of Crowley’s dick sinks into the tight heat of Dean’s body—it’s as close to heaven as a Demon will ever get. Dean doesn’t waste time. He lifts his head, clutches at Crowley’s shoulders for support and starts to roll his hips. Rock down on Crowley’s cock like it’s what he was made for.

“Feel fantastic, sweetheart,” Crowley murmurs. “Such a good boy for Daddy.”

Dean moans at that. Picks up a little speed. The poor thing tries so hard. He’s so desperate for the approval of an authority figure, he’ll do anything. Even this.

Towards the beginning of their little tryst, Crowley expected more of a fight. He expected to wade through a puddle of internalized homophobia and toxic masculinity before he could claim his prize. But it was so easy. All he had to do was cup Dean’s chin and ask what _Daddy_ could do to make him feel good.

Humans, at the root, are very simple. They all want to be loved. They all want to be forgiven. Perhaps it’s perverse for Crowley to take advantage of that fact. But it’s his job. The only difference here is that he’s not angling to snag Dean’s soul. At least, not yet he isn’t. In part, he loves the idea of defiling a heavenly vessel. Mostly, he’s just selfish. Dean is pretty as a renaissance painting. Crowley is a slut for the finer things.

Dean leans in and kisses him. It’s hot, wet, and desperate. He’s mumbling now. Iterations of, _Daddy, yes, please._ The slap of skin echoes through the cab of the car. They’re both panting. Sweating. Hell, Crowley is still fully clothed. This suit is going to be ruined. Like so many other fine suits he made the mistake of wearing to this sort of booty call. The casualty is worth the cause. If only just.

Crowley smacks Dean’s arse. Grabs two handfuls of it. Digs his nails in. The heat of pleasure is curling inside him. So intense it’s almost painful. He prides himself on being able to last. But even he has a hard time with a lap full of squirming, gasping, Winchester.

“Are you getting close, pet?” Crowley breathes. He slides one of his hands between them. Wraps it loosely around Dean’s throbbing cock.

“Yes, Daddy, please, please touch me—I—ah—”

Crowley tightens his grip. Strokes Dean’s cock slow and firm. Dean cries out. He must be surfing the edge. His thighs are trembling. His every shallow breath is tinged with a moan.

“It’s all right, baby,” Crowley murmurs. “You can come. Whenever you’re ready. Daddy wants to feel it.”

Dean falls apart so beautifully. It’s a full body shudder as he squeezes down around Crowley’s dick. He makes a mess. Splatters come all over Crowley’s shirt. Hazard of the game. It feels too good to really be upset about. Dean slumps forward. Goes limp. Crowley thrusts up into him, hard and fast. The way he only can when a partner is relaxed, in an altered state of post-orgasmic euphoria.

It doesn't take long, once Crowley loses himself in Dean’s body. In the sweet drag of flesh. He murmurs filthy nothings, about how perfect Dean is, such a well behaved little fucktoy.

The pleasure crests. Crowley’s eyes flash blood red for half a moment. He fills Dean up with all the sinful seed he’s got.

They stay like that, wrapped around each other. Even after Crowley has gotten soft. He slips out of Dean, and the mess dribbles onto Crowley’s trousers.

In the afterglow, Dean is a needy creature. Crowley learned the hard way not to leave him alone. If not cared for properly, he’s morose and bitter and downright insufferable for days. The little lamb doesn't even seem to consciously realize why he gets so grumpy--as he will insist he does not need to be coddled or looked after. No, they have to pretend that _Crowley_ is the one who needs the ritual of aftercare. It's all so very ridiculous and strangely endearing.

Crowley makes sure the car doors are locked before he takes Dean home. He doesn't see the point in driving when teleportation is an option. He sets Dean down on the bed and cleans him up with a warm washcloth. He makes the boy drink a glass of water before tending to himself. He changes into his favorite pair of black silk pajamas before climbing between the sheets and curling around Dean.

When he's in a particularly whimsical mood, Crowley fancies that they're in love. He knows it's not something he can really feel. He's never going to put someone else’s well-being above his own, and humans are so terribly fragile. They live tiny little blips of existence when compared to a timeline of eternity. Perhaps he cares for Dean more like a puppy than anything. He cares the way you would for a creature that could never match your intelligence, a creature you know will die long before you. But it’s still more genuine emotion than he's experienced in centuries. It's almost a novelty.

Dean fidgets. Rolls over so he can nuzzle against Crowley’s neck. By morning, he’ll be gruff again. May or may not hang around for a lazy fuck. Will definitely refuse breakfast and demand to be taken back to his car. For now, though, he's soft and sleepy. It's all satisfied sighs and butterfly kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the [tumbles.](http://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/)


End file.
